Blue Bob

By Arlan Gerig

My boyfriend’s eyes light up as he catches sight of the 1981 Thunderbird I just inherited from my grandfather. I figured Michael would be impressed with Blue Bob, given his freakish obsession with repairing old cars. However, I’m afraid even Michael can’t handle Bob’s special quirks.

Michael’s chiseled face stretches into a Zac Efron smile as he grabs my hand and drags me around the car to inspect it. We both jump when the windshield wipers start whapping back and forth.

Michael steps away, eyes wide as CDs. I reach through the open window and turn off the wipers.

“Gosh, Michael. I don’t know how that happened.”

“Your car isn’t even running! Let me take a look.”

I step aside and he pops the hood.

“You don’t need to do that. It’s probably nothing.” I have my suspicions about Blue Bob, but I don’t impose my theories on Michael. Not yet.

The car isn’t the only one with issues.

Michael wiggles the battery wires. “Rebecca, where’d you get the money for this beauty? Classics like this are expensive.”

“After my grandpa died a couple months ago, my mom and aunts couldn’t decide what to do with his car. He pampered this old thing, but nobody could get it to turn over. When I started Blue Bob on my first try, my aunts insisted I keep it.”

“That’s weird.”

I lean against the fender to watch him examine and tighten parts. “Not as weird as my aunts hearing the horn whine and seeing the lights flash late at night.”

“Maybe the electrical system is malfunctioning.”

“Or maybe someone is playing a prank on me. Maybe Blue Bob is being remote controlled by foreign powers.”

His brows wrinkle. “That’s ridiculous. For what purpose? Just haven’t found the problem yet.” Add that to the issue list: no imagination. After all, the truth may be harder to believe than foreign technology.

I lean closer and address my real goal. “Let’s go to the park. It’s a beautiful fall day.”

“But I’ve got a chemistry final to study for and someone to see later.”

Third issue: too busy. Aren’t I more important than any chemistry final? And who’s this someone?

Michael slams the hood and uses his shirt to wipe his hands. His phone rings but he silences it.

“Who was that?” I ask.

“Uh––my mom.”

“Well, Mom will have to wait.” A knot forms in my stomach and I change the subject. “What if Blue Bob is possessed? You wouldn’t be afraid of driving him, would you?”

He crosses his arms. “Rebecca, this isn’t a Stephen King novel, and I’m not afraid of any car. Let’s just go for a quick spin.”

Michael tries to start Blue Bob, but the motor doesn’t cooperate. After several attempts, he scoots to the passenger’s side. I get in the driver’s seat, and the engine roars to life. Michael raises an eyebrow.

While I drive, the air comes on by itself, blowing a cool breeze on me but hot air on Michael.

He rolls down the window.

“Maybe someone did tamper with it. This car is stranger than my last girlfriend.”

A fourth issue––a biggie: mentions old girlfriends. That knot gets tighter.

I swing into the park, put Blue Bob in a front spot, and walk with Michael to a nearby bench. The sun filters through buckeye and maple trees that drop twirling leaves of gold and orange. Michael puts his arm around my waist, and that stomach knot loosens.

I lean my head on his shoulder to try for a kiss. His mind must be elsewhere because he ignores me. I nudge closer to try again. He doesn’t respond, but his head follows a jogging blond.

I’m about to call him out when Blue Bob’s radio starts playing old songs. Not wanting to leave Michael to turn off the radio, afraid he’ll want to go, I let it play.

Humming along with a song about a man losing his woman and sipping margaritas all day, I watch a squirrel nibble a nut. The unromantic song jars me, so I sit up and go through the others Blue Bob has been playing. Every song mentions jilted lovers or cheaters. Is Blue Bob sending me a message? If so, I haven’t been listening. Until now.

A country song comes on. Its twanging guitars scare the birds away. A woman sings in a melancholy voice, “Love ain’t made for you and me and she.”

I turn to make eye contact, but Michael’s baby blues are watching college girls practice soccer moves. One waves to us.

I need to push. “How do you feel about me?”

“Hm?”

“Am I your only girlfriend?”

“Of course, Julia.”

I’m on my feet, heart pounding. “Who’s Julia?”

“I––I mean Rebecca.” His face reddens. “I don’t know where that came from.”

He stands, hand on my elbow. I pull away, and he tries to hold me again. The guitar solo crescendos as Blue Bob revs then races toward us, scaring squirrels and kicking up leaves. Michael pales, trips over the bench, and runs across the park.

Tears cloud my vision. Good riddance.

Blue Bob stops in front of me, engine purring. No one is driving, of course. I get behind the wheel, click off the radio, and sit bawling for a minute. I wipe my eyes, reverse back to the parking lot, and head back to the dorm.

“I liked him,” I tell Blue Bob and stifle a sob.

The radio comes on again, a woman belting out the lyrics. “It’s pouring men. Gonna be knee-deep in puddles of them.”

I stop in front of the dorm as three handsome boys approach the doors, large books under their arms. They see me and turn toward Blue Bob.

I start a new list of boyfriend requirements: a guy who puts me first and likes possessed cars.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Arlan Gerig is a former language arts teacher with a love for stories and writing. He enjoys sci-fi novels and movies, especially the classics. Although his church’s mission trip to the Bahamas has been postponed twice, he hopes to go next year. Arlan lives with his wife, three kids, two dogs, a cat and a rabbit.

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